


As The World Falls Down

by intotheruins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fallen Castiel, First Kiss, First Time, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Human Castiel, M/M, Sastiel Big Bang 2016, Supportive Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-06 08:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8741992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins
Summary: After the Trials, Sam is unable to get better but also unable to die. Desperate to save him, a fallen Castiel summons Apollo and undergoes a series of labors meant to gather enough healing energy to cure him. He wasn't prepared for just how intense the labors would be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The awesome art is by [the-grace-of-fallen-angels](http://the-grace-of-fallen-angels.tumblr.com/)! Thank you so much! <3
> 
> This was beta'd by the amazing [castielsstar](castielsstar.tumblr.com) <3 thank you, it looks SO MUCH BETTER!!
> 
> Title is from As The World Falls Down by David Bowie. 
> 
> This is not the best thing I've ever written. Parts of it are pretty damn good, but I didn't have the energy for it (I probably shouldn't have signed up for it in the first place). Hopefully it's still entertaining, and at some point I will come back and do some serious edits.

Once, for just a few short days, Castiel had been nearly human. Though his grace had been intact, it was buried so deeply that he could only just sense its presence. The time leading up to Lucifer's defeat had been a haze of hunger, thirst, and the half-awareness of sleep, punctuated by a sense of utter uselessness. He'd observed humanity for centuries, could tell tales of their secret histories and know their darkest desires with a glance to their soul.

But he couldn't fire a weapon, or drive, or work the damn microwave.

Oh, he learned, of course, and when his grace returned he made a point of going through the mundane task of manually operating any human thing he came across. He learned without help to do everything average humans did on a regular basis. Just in case.

Now, as the sky filled with streaks of piercing white light, Castiel understood that he'd never really known. Never truly been prepared for this.

There was no hint of his grace, all of it taken by the hand of the angel who tricked him into helping betray Heaven. _Again_. The tall, yellow grass that made up the field where Castiel fell was wet with recent rain. It soaked into his pants below the knee, the material clinging and clammy. The brightness of the the falling angels stung his eyes—when he looked away there was an afterimage of their light, temporarily blinding him. He felt his breaths coming short and shallow, a strange, rising sense of pressure making him gasp and shake.

Panic. This was panic.

Closing his eyes, Castiel forced himself to pull in a single, deep breath and hold it. He waited as long as his lungs would allow before releasing the air in a rush. Three times he did this, and on the third he felt the pressure subsiding. His heart hammered, a steady throb he could feel all the way up in his throat, and his hands shook with the faintest tremor, but it was manageable.

The angels had ceased falling and Castiel's eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. His vision was limited, far more than he was accustomed to, but he was able to make his way out of the field and into the trees. There it became even worse, the trees blocking out what little light the moon had afforded him and forcing him to stumble along with his hands as much as his eyes. Bark bit at his palms, roots caught at his feet. Castiel even fell once, his knees slamming hard into the ground. A sharp rock sliced through the material of his slacks and gouged his knee. He hissed at the sharp pain, instinctively attempting to dull it with his grace. A different kind of instinct made him lurch to his feet, so that he could rip the rock free and toss it away.

The warmth of his blood— _his_ blood, no longer Jimmy Novak’s, not when he'd been gone for so long—slicked down his shin. Castiel shuddered. The pain was sharp and throbbing, a shock when he had to bear it, yet it also gave him focus. Something to latch onto besides the barely restrained terror.

There was a hint of deep rose spilling over the horizon when Castiel finally stumbled onto the side of a mountain road. A car rushed past, horn blaring—he threw himself out of the way and fell onto the pavement, the impact crushing his shoulder and making him cry out. Dull, sickening pain shuddered through his back, and for a moment Castiel lay still, eyes closed.

How did humans deal with this?

They _could_ deal with this. Castiel grit his teeth and shoved himself upright.

He walked while the sun rose, doing his best to ignore the raw ache of his feet. Both coats were abandoned within the first hour. The tie went next. Without the perfect sense of time he'd possessed as an angel, Castiel had no way of knowing how many hours had passed by the time he trudged up to a gas station. He didn't care. He dug into his pockets, praying that there might be some money, even loose change. Two crumpled dollar bills were all he was able to find, but that was enough to get him a bottle of water.

“You alright?” the man behind the cash register asked. He had dark skin and wide, kind, brown eyes.

“I will be,” Castiel murmured. “Thank you.”

“Sure. Hey.” The man reached over the counter and grabbed a Snickers bar, shoving it over along with Castiel's water. “Here. Not much, but the sugar should help. You look like you're about to pass out.”

Did he? He felt oddly numb, aware of nothing but the stickiness of his sweat and the dryness of his tongue. “Do you have a phone I could use? I don't have any signal.”

He'd checked right before he came inside. The cell phone was nearly dead, and in place of the bars that told him if he could make a call was a circle with a line through it. Fortunately, he knew Dean's number by heart.

“There's a payphone around the corner. That dollar you have left will be enough for one call. You need quarters, though. I'll change it for you.”

Castiel handed the man his dollar and watched him open the register to exchange it for four quarters. After thanking him a third time, he made his way around the building, bottle clutched in one hand and the Snickers bar sticking out of a pocket.

The phone was on the side of the building. Castiel fed it quarters before punching in Dean's number, and it didn't occur to him until the second ring that Dean might not pick up. What would he do then? Leave a message? Beg more quarters off the next customer?

The very idea made his stomach churn.

“Cas?”

A breath Castiel hadn't realized he was holding rushed out. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, you okay, man? I saw the... it was the angels, right?”

Guilt flooded him in hot waves. He swallowed it down for now, tucked it away to deal with later. “Yes, Metatron tricked me. Dean, can you come get me? I can't... my wings are gone.”

There was a pause. He heard Dean suck in a sharp breath, then, “Yeah, ‘course. Where are you?”

“I...” He didn't know. He couldn't just _know,_ not anymore. “Stay on the line.”

“You got it.”

Castiel ran back inside, quickly asking the cashier where he was. The man looked confused, but he rattled off a town and the distance.

“I'm fifteen miles outside of Longmont, Colorado,” Castiel said as soon as he was back.

There was silence for a second. Dean drew in another deep breath. “Okay. That's gonna take me a little bit, but I can make it tonight. Do you have food?”

“I have a Snickers bar.”

Dean laughed, high and shaky. “Yeah, okay, that'll hold you over, I guess. Just... just hang out. I'm leaving now.”

“Okay. Thank you. Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Is Sam okay?”

There was another pause, this one longer.

“Dean?”

“He's alive.”

Dean hung up.

Castiel's hand shook as he replaced the phone.


	2. Chapter 2

_He's alive._

Castiel stood at the foot of Sam's bed, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his trench coat.

_He's alive._

It could be called that, he supposed. The gaunt, pale face. The sweat-sheen of a dangerous fever. The shallow breaths—one, two, three. Pause. Gasp. Fingers curled weakly into the sheet, twitching irregularly. Pale there, too. Pale everywhere.

Two steps took him to Sam's bedside. Castiel sank down slowly, careful not to jostle him. He reached out, unthinking, diverting the two fingers that would have once possessed a healing touch at the last second to sweep back a sweaty lock of hair. He tucked it behind Sam's ear, brushed the shell with his thumb and watched, baffled, as Sam sighed and smiled in his sleep.

His dreams must be peaceful. It was a strange sort of comfort.

Leaving Sam was harder than he thought it would be, but the gnawing emptiness in his stomach drove him to the kitchen. Dean was there, chopping up vegetables. The thick smell of chicken broth pervaded the room—Castiel breathed it in, frowning when it only made his stomach twist and rumble.

“He asleep?” Dean asked as Castiel sank into a chair.

“Yes.” Castiel breathed in again, ignored his stomach. He watched Dean as he made the soup, meticulous about every detail.

They hadn’t spoken much on the drive back to the bunker. Nothing more than a quiet apology Castiel offered into the silence, and a just as quiet acceptance from Dean. But now that he'd seen Sam, Castiel felt as though he should find a way to show more gratitude. It must have taken a great deal for Dean to leave his brother like that, even with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to make it better.

So he tried to make it better with chicken soup. Perfect chicken soup. It made Castiel laugh, the sound just as twisted and upset as his empty stomach.

Dean turned, eyebrow cocked and knife paused halfway through a carrot. “What?”

“Details.” Castiel tried to swallow his laughter and nearly choked on it. “They're so much more important now.”

The sickly pale of Sam's skin, the too-careful way Dean cut up that carrot, the fine tremor in Castiel's hands as it sank in, truly shocking down to his core, _human human_ **_human._ ** All details, it was all he could see, the big picture was lost to him.

Maybe that was what it meant to be human. All the little things he'd never understood.

“Shit, Cas.” Dean dropped the knife, still embedded in a carrot, and scrambled across the five feet separating them to grasp Castiel's shoulders. “Hey. No freaking out on me, buddy. Wait your turn, Sam's gotta get better first.”

Dean's tone was a forced knot of attempted humor. His fingers would leave bruises where they sank into Castiel's skin—new bruises to join the one from his already damaged shoulder. He would feel the ache for days, a constant reminder of this odd, momentary breakdown.

“I'm sorry,” he managed around too-high giggles. “I don't... I don't understand...”

Dean rubbed at Castiel's shoulders. His smile was tight but genuine, and for some reason that Castiel couldn't grasp, it gave him the will to stop laughing.

“It happens,” Dean said, shrugging. “You're overwhelmed.”

Castiel nodded. He wanted to ask if it got better, but how could Dean possibly answer that? He'd never possessed the sheer power of an angel, never known what it was to fly, to see the whole of everything and not understand what a gift it was. He’d never heard the song, the united voices of the other angels...

God, it was so _quiet._

“Keep cooking,” Castiel said, voice tight. At least the clatter of Dean's work helped.

The hunter frowned, but he nodded and released Castiel. The snick and crack of the knife resumed, let Castiel breathe just a little easier.

“Tell me about Sam,” Castiel urged. “Why isn't he in the hospital?”

“Tried that, they just said he wasn't gonna... that he wasn't okay and there was nothing they could do. So I got him out and back here. Figured he'd be more comfortable, you know?”

Dean chopped a little faster as he spoke. Castiel watched, heart skittering nervously in his chest because if Dean cut himself, Castiel could do nothing to fix it.

“He wasn't this bad at first,” Dean continued. “When the angels were falling, he looked sick but not. Not like he is now.”

Castiel nodded. His mind was racing, balking at the idea that he could do nothing and instead searching for a solution within the vast knowledge of his mind. Knowledge, he realized after a moment, that was somewhat hazy—he recalled certain things with perfect clarity, but others were faded at the edges or eluded him entirely.

The human mind wasn't meant to store that much information. Castiel cursed silently, grasping at anything in case it disappeared.

He caught something before it slipped through the cracks, _healing, music, sun._ Apollo. No angel would cure Sam Winchester, no demon could hope to try, but a god. A god could help him.

There was a ritual... there was always a ritual, unnecessary before, vital to him in human form. Most of the ancient beings loved the magics associated with them, the Greek gods in particular. They were too close to human, and arrogant enough to soak up the worship.

He needed an instrument, and a fire, and the right words. They were there, safe for now—Castiel tucked them into a corner of his new, fragile mind and prayed that they stayed there.

“I'm going to look in the library,” Castiel said. “Maybe I can find something to help Sam.”

Dean nodded. “Sure, I could use the help. But eat something first. This won't be ready for a while... here.”

Dean left the soup to simmer and threw together a sandwich. Turkey, cheese, tomato, and what was probably too much mayo. Castiel wolfed it down gratefully, barely tasting it in his eagerness to fill his stomach.

When it was gone, he thanked Dean and disappeared into the bunker's many rooms of storage.

The Men of Letters had saved a variety of items. It was his hope that somewhere, he would find an instrument. Preferably well-used and of decent quality.

It took him twelve hours, two return trips to the kitchen, and several check-ins with Sam (who was still asleep), but eventually Castiel found a box of seemingly random personal items. A pocket watch, an old leather wallet, several charms, a few worn photos of two young boys, and a harmonica.

Carefully, Castiel slipped the harmonica from the box and cupped it in both hands. His ability to sense the history and energy of an item was gone, but he still swore he felt something. Hope, maybe, tricking him into believing what he needed.

He slipped the harmonica into his pocket and went to get matches. At least those would be easy to find.

~

Matches obtained and harmonica safely in his pocket, Castiel slipped from the bunker after dark while Dean was asleep at Sam's bedside. He found a level patch of ground hidden from view of the road and built a small fire within a circle of rocks. Then he knelt in front of it, harmonica held in both hands as an offering, and opened his mouth to say the words.

The words he couldn't remember.

Castiel's eyes widened. He searched, frantic, hoping to snatch at even one that might bring the others back to him, but there was _nothing._ The words were gone, a blank, infuriating space left in their place.

Castiel closed his fist around the harmonica. The edges bit into his skin—he hissed, pain and frustration rolled together. He remembered how the old words felt, how they were made of depth and worship and wonder, and more than a little fear.

Useless. He couldn’t save Sam with a feeling.

Castiel flung the harmonica into the fire. It hissed, tossing up sparks in protest.

He thought of Sam, who still hadn't woken. Of Dean, who kept patiently forcing chicken broth down his brother's throat, who made sure Sam stayed hydrated and changed the sheets when Sam never woke to use the bathroom.

A warm hand cupped his head. Castiel lunged back, his new human instinct demanding retreat. He pushed too hard and fell, curling in on himself so that he wouldn't strike his head against the ground.

Quickly, he shoved himself up on his elbows and met the gaze of the being standing before him.

As an angel, Castiel had interacted—briefly—with a few gods. He had always scoffed at the very idea that they could claim such a title, that they were so arrogant as to believe they could ever hope to live up to it. They always appeared dim and small to him, nothing like the glory he imagined of the one true God.

Now, he thought he understood.

The male figure above him was surrounded by a bright, golden glow. It shone from waves of blond hair and from deep within tanned skin. He was tall, muscular in the idealized way Castiel had seen in books of mythology. But it was more than that, more than the near-perfect appearance. It was something in his strange, fiery eyes that pinned Castiel to his place in the grass and refused to let him rise. To do anything except stare.

Apollo took a step towards him, and the light around him faded until he appeared almost nothing more than an unusually good looking man—except for those eyes, which remained too bright, too undefinable.

He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. It almost made Castiel laugh.

“This clothing is comfortable,” the god said with a gentle chuckle.

For a moment Castiel felt a shocked sort of outrage—this being should never be able to read the mind of an angel.

Only he wasn't an angel. Not anymore, and this summoning never should have worked. Not like this. Not without his old powers.

“You'll never be really human,” Apollo said. He had a soft voice, almost soothing. “Otherwise it wouldn't have worked. But I haven't felt that much emotion in a summoning in thousands of years. Tell me what's wrong.”

“You already know,” Castiel said gruffly. “Don't you?”

Apollo shrugged. He reached out, offering a hand. It took Castiel a moment to accept it and allow the god to haul him to his feet. “I was going to give you a chance to say it out loud. You don't seem to like me seeing your mind. If it helps, I can't really stop it now that you're this close to human.”

“Can you help Sam?” Castiel tugged his hand from the god's too-warm grip.

“I can help you help Sam,” Apollo answered. “That kind of healing takes an immense amount of power. If you can generate it for me, I can use it to cure Sam's sickness.”

Castiel frowned, head tipping in a way that had long since become habit. “I don't have any power. You do.”

Apollo smiled. It wasn't kind, but it wasn't cruel, either. Strangely, Castiel now found the lack of a distinct emotion infuriating. He wondered if this was how Dean felt when he had to deal with him in the beginnings of their relationship.

“I could probably generate the necessary power,” Apollo admitted. “But I won't. It's draining and incredibly inconvenient, and I have no need to help you. I'm only here because I was curious.”

One of Castiel's hands curled into a fist, his jaw clenching and eyes narrowing in a glare. He wanted to demand help, but what he spat out instead was, “Fine. Tell me what to do.”

Apollo's smile widened. “First, you must accept that you can't tell anyone what you're doing. If any outside influence affects the energy you'll be collecting, it will negate its power. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Castiel forced himself to relax his fist, but couldn't bring himself to unclench his jaw. It felt too much like a demon deal, even if he wasn't bargaining away his soul.

“Good. If you slip up, it's your Sam that will pay the price. You will have to complete seven labors. They'll begin when you leave here.”

Before Castiel could ask how he would know what they were, or where to begin, Apollo had vanished.

The ex-angel managed to bury the fire and walk five steps before he threw his head back and let out a frustrated shout.

_It's your Sam that will pay the price._

Leaning heavily against the trunk of a pine, Castiel closed his eyes and let those words sink into him. His Sam.

His.

He never thought of Dean as his.

“My Sam,” Castiel said quietly, and opened his eyes.

For the first time since he'd fallen, the emotion filling his chest was warmth and comfort. Confused, he thought of Dean. There was a warmth there as well, a similar sensation... no, it wasn't.

Details. It was in the details.

Castiel sighed, and began to make his way back toward the bunker to await the first labor.


	3. Chapter 3

The bunker was empty.

The Impala was still in the garage, but Dean was nowhere to be found. Castiel searched the kitchen, his bedroom, the library, the storage rooms. Nothing.

As an angel, there had always been sound. The song of the host, the flow of energy from the earth, the hopes and wishes of every soul on the planet. Since his creation, Castiel had never known quiet. He’d never truly felt alone, even at his most lost, until he fell.

Now, he realized his first day as a human hadn’t been nearly as quiet as it had felt.

The silence in the bunker  _ loomed.  _ Not a perfect silence, of course—he could hear the thud of his rising heartbeat, the soft thump of each footfall, the low hum of electricity. Somehow, that was worse. He was no longer the largest entity in the room, just a tiny collection of bone and blood and flesh choking on its own frightened breath. The building was alive, it  _ felt  _ alive, a creature that would devour him if he took his eyes off of it for one second.

Scowling, Castiel shook his head sharply and told his ridiculous human instincts to calm down. He’d go check on Sam, he decided, and probably find Dean in there at the same time.

Dean was not there, and Sam...

If Sam had been pale before, he was deathly now. A faint blue tinge surrounded his lips, and his breathing was shallow. With a soft cry, Castiel lunged across the space separating them, feet tangling in nothing, useless human limbs tripping him up and sending him crashing down on the bed, palms out to stop his fall. Sam's body jostled with the movement. His next breath left his lips and took too long to be reclaimed.

“ _ Sam! _ ” Castiel cried, but there was no response. He scrambled up the bed and cupped the hunter's face, shivering at how cold he was. “Sam!”

Where the hell was Dean? He couldn't be gone, not when Sam was going to...

Hurling himself off the bed, Castiel ran down the hall and to the kitchen. Dean still wasn't there.

He forced himself to stop, to draw in a deep breath and close his eyes.

“ Think,” he hissed. No wonder humans behaved so strangely sometimes—he’d never understood until now just how powerful panic was.

He dug into his pockets for his phone and dialed Dean's number.

It rang once before a voice said that his call could not be completed as dialed.

Did Dean...?

No. No, Dean would never leave them. He would never leave  _ Sam.  _ His phone must have been damaged... but why would he leave the bunker if he knew they couldn't get a hold of him?

Unless something attacked him. Maybe he found a hunt on the way back, and the phone was damaged then?

Castiel's vision swam. He grabbed for the back of a chair, squinting and letting out a frustrated huff when it did nothing to clear his sight. His heart was pounding, similar to how he’d felt shortly after his fall and yet... more. It was deeper, settling in the pit of his stomach, shortening his breath.

Eyes closed, block it out, breathe,  _ breathe...  _ how did humans handle this?

He checked the garage again, tried to remember how many cars were there and cursed when his human mind failed him. Were there always this many? Had Dean taken out a different car on a whim?

He ran, tried to check every room in the bunker—every spare bedroom, storage rooms, war room, there were so many, had there always been this many rooms? It seemed endless.

For a being who once viewed the universe and took it for granted, feeling dwarfed by a single building was maddening.

~

Days passed, and Dean did not return. Castiel gave up on trying to reach him, didn't search outside the bunker because he was too afraid Sam would be gone when he came back.

The ex-angel tried to take care of him, like Dean would. He fed him soup and coaxed water down his throat, and changed the sheets when necessary. Only he kept spilling the soup, hands shaking as he watched each shallow inhale. More water ended up soaking into the mattress than in Sam. He hadn't slept in three days except for in brief bursts, too terrified that Sam would—

Castiel shook himself. Terror. He'd known it as an angel, but it was so out of his control as a human. Everything was. He couldn't stop the shaking in his hands or the knot of sickness in his stomach. He couldn't pour grace into Sam and heal him. He was  _ useless. _

He couldn't even think the word. The one that meant finality—no more of Sam's brilliant mind, or his smile, or a thousand other smaller details that made him who he was.

His body forced him to sleep on the fourth night. When he woke it was to Sam's breath rattling in his chest. Castiel stumbled out of his chair and sat on the bed, placing a hand over Sam's heart like he could  _ force  _ a healing.

Something rose up in his throat and choked him. His eyes stung.

“ Don't,” he whispered.

Slowly, Sam's breathing evened out. Still shallow, but not so close to nothing. Castiel let a tear escape, and once it was free the others followed. He buried his face in Sam's chest and let it happen.

It was almost worse, watching Sam ever on the edge. The fear ate at him like this, wouldn't let him rest. He didn't think his heart rate had gone down in days.

Days became weeks. Sam continued to hover on that edge, occasionally teetering so close that his breath became a horrid rattle. Castiel spent those moments with a hand over Sam's heart, barely breathing himself as he waited to see if this was it. If Sam was finally done.

If he was finally going to  _ die. _

Something broke in him when he finally thought it. He swore at Apollo for failing him, swore at himself for failing Sam. There were no tears this time, but when he'd ceased his screaming and his hands were bloody from pounding at the walls, he sank onto the bed beside Sam and took his hand. It was the first time he felt calm since he'd returned to the bunker.

At the very least, he wouldn't let Sam die alone.

~

“ Hey, Cas.”

Castiel blinked. His hand was encased in a larger one, warm and rough with callouses. His nose was pressed against a solid bicep. He lurched up onto an elbow and found Sam sitting partially upright. There was a little color in his face and an encouraging strength in his grip when he squeezed Castiel's hand.

“ Sam?” Castiel frowned. “You're... okay.”

Sam grimaced. “If you mean more exhausted than I've ever been, then yeah, I'm okay.” His expression immediately morphed into a teasing smile, only to melt into a concerned frown when Castiel continued to stare. “Cas? You okay, man? Dean said you've been here a while, maybe you should go get some real sleep.”

Dean. Dean was here.

Scrambling upright, Castiel dug his phone from his pocket. No amount of staring made the date and time on the screen make any sense—it was the same day he'd summoned Apollo. He'd only been back in the bunker a few hours, not days.

“ Cas?” Sam squeezed his hand.

There was something pressed against his palm. Carefully, Castiel withdrew his hand, tucking whatever it was into his pocket in case it had anything to do with the labors. “I'm fine, Sam, I... I think I had a bad dream.”

He tried smiling and Sam instantly smiled back. “Don't worry, it's normal to be disoriented after a bad dream,” Sam assured him. “Seriously, Cas, go get some rest. Dean said you were in the library for hours.”

Castiel sighed. “I didn't find anything,” he murmured. He curled his hand more tightly around the object in his palm, but refused to let the hope enter his voice. One word, one single word and he would have failed Sam. “But I'll keep looking. I won't stop until I find something to help you.”

Details. Humanity was in the details—the subtle way Sam's smile softened, the way Castiel's breath stopped for a moment as though stunned, how his hand moved on an instinct he hadn't learned to interpret yet, reaching out to smooth back Sam's hair just like he had on the first day. It was filthy, desperately needed to be washed, but Castiel didn't seem to care. He curled a lock around his finger and let it drag across his skin as he drew away.

“ Um...” Sam's smile faltered, though Castiel didn't think he looked displeased. His frown was more curious than upset. “Thanks?”

“ You're welcome,” Castiel said numbly. He frowned when Sam let out a surprised burst of a laugh, which only seemed to increase the hunter's amusement.

“ Sorry, I'm not laughing at you, I swear,” Sam chuckled. “It's just... nah, never mind. Can you help me stand? I think once I get on my feet I can get to the shower.”

“ Of course.” Castiel rose and held out a hand to Sam. It was harder to support him now—Sam was several inches taller, all of him packed with muscle that Castiel had appreciated as an angel, but as a human it had  _ weight.  _ He had to lunge back just to yank Sam to his feet.

“ Thanks.” Sam steadied himself with a hand on the nightstand, taking a cautious step forward. “Sorry, I'm probably a lot heavier to you now.”

“ Impressively so,” Castiel agreed, and then frowned—why was that impressive? Another detail, but this one entirely escaped his understanding. “Do you want assistance with showering?”

Slowly letting go of the nightstand, Sam took several steps forward and then grinned. “Nope, I'm okay. Thanks though. You should drop by the kitchen before you go to bed, Dean's worried about you. Could you let him know I'm up?”

“ Of course.” Castiel kept a close eye on Sam as he left, walking slowly but steadily enough that his worry eased.

Once he was gone, the ex-angel quickly removed his hand from his pocket and opened his fist.

The object was a tangled knot of stone, maybe an inch in diameter and a sickly, deep yellow.  _ Fear. _

Closing his hand around the stone, Castiel tucked it safely into his pocket even as he closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

At least with the next labor, he knew to expect illusions.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean swore at Castiel when he entered the kitchen. He flinched away at first, startled by the hunter's vehemence, only to relax when Dean practically threw him into a chair and started fixing him a meal. Another sandwich, this one roast beef.

After Castiel had eaten and relayed Sam's message to Dean, he let himself go to a room to sleep. His room, he supposed. Dean had given it to him the first time he'd been here, though there was nothing inside to mark it as his.

Maybe he'd change that, later.

The pillow was soft, the mattress giving beneath his weight as he fell into it fully dressed. His eyes were dry, almost itchy, but closing them did little to soothe it. Details. Too tired to fall asleep. That made no sense at all.

“Humanity,” Castiel muttered, exasperated and strangely amused at the same time.

His eyes drifted shut. The darkness was peaceful, but his lids wouldn’t stay closed. With a heavy sigh, Castiel let them slide back open.

He was standing in front of a pair of enormous laurel hedges.

When that also failed to make sense, Castiel turned to take in his new surroundings. The sky was a deep blue, not so much as a wisp of cloud to protect him from the bright rays of the sun. There appeared to be nothing behind him; just a wall of black that Castiel stumbled away from, recoiling as though it might suck him inside and erase him from existence.

Maybe it would.

He turned back to the hedges.

They were truly massive, so tall Castiel could only just make out the tops. The leaves were a fresh, wet green, glistening in the sunlight. He reached out to cautiously take one between his fingers. It was smooth and thick, and he was surprised by how pleasing he found the texture.

The opening between the two hedges was wide, at least a few yards across. Almost welcoming, spacious enough to leave him feeling fairly comfortable despite the sheer height of them.

“A maze,” Castiel murmured. “Do I get a sphinx as well?” He paused, then scowled when his memory failed him; he could no longer remember which mythology that particular creature belonged to.

“The sphinx guarded Thebes in the history written by man,” a firm voice said behind him. “And trust me, you do not want one.”

Castiel whirled. The figure was tall—taller than him by at least a few inches. She had visibly muscled arms and shoulders and, like Apollo, was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, though her shirt was black. There was a strange mixture of serenity and ferocity in her eyes, and while she possessed the same golden glow, there was something less intimidating and more inviting about it.

He wondered if that was purposeful, or simply part of her nature.

“Athena?” He hated the question in his tone, the uncertainty, but he was relieved when she gave a single nod. “Does it break any rules for you to be here?”

“None,” she said simply. “Your task is this: find the two things hidden in the maze that bring you joy.”

Castiel nodded. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Athena frowned and stepped forward, crossing her arms over her chest. “I would ask you something. Is he worth it?”

“Yes.” That, at least, was something he could say without hesitation.

“Interesting.” She tilted her head in a way that briefly reminded Castiel of himself, only her expression was sharper, more like a hawk staring down its prey. “Then I will give you a warning. Do not be seduced by false joy.”

She vanished before Castiel could question her further.

“I think I would have preferred the sphinx,” Castiel muttered.

He turned and strode into the maze.

He'd taken three steps when he stopped dead and blurted, “Harry Potter! There was a sphinx in a maze in Harry Potter.”

Meg brought him the first five books while he was carrying Sam's madness, probably to distract him from some of the stranger things he'd kept trying to do in public.

The leaves rustled, sudden and loud and entirely on their own, not even a gentle wind to assist with their movement.

Castiel sighed and ground his palms into his eyes. Wonderful, the maze was laughing at him. Honestly, he almost felt like laughing at himself. He'd forgotten so many things, but a reference from a fantasy series stuck with him? Perhaps it was easier for his human mind to handle.

Shaking his head, Castiel let his hands fall from his eyes and continued on.

In most stories, the object of importance was in the center of the maze. Castiel took a left he thought was in the general correct direction, then a right, and found himself up against a wall. Sighing, he backtracked and tried the right instead, which led him along the wall for a ridiculous amount of time before he came to... another wall.

Something tickled at the back of his mind. _Things are not always what they seem in this place._ He had the strangest image of a small worm-like creature with blue hair.

“It just goes on and on,” Castiel murmured, echoing a line spoken in a feminine voice, ringing in his memory. He put out his hand and rested it against the leaves as he slowly walked back the way he came.

Maybe twenty steps before his hand met with air.

“The Labyrinth,” Castiel remembered, smiling. That had been Sam, during the case in Oklahoma City. They watched it in a motel room while waiting for Dean to come back with breakfast.

Maybe stories weren't such a bad thing to keep after all.

The opening was so well blended in with its surroundings that even while Castiel was stepping through it, he couldn't see it. Not until he was in the new pathway. When he turned, it was still impossible to find. He held out his hand into the empty space he knew was there, fascinated by the contrast of his eyes telling him there was a wall while touch told him there was nothing.

He continued on like that, finding two more doorways hidden from sight. The sun never moved—he had no sense of time flowing at all. It was incredibly disconcerting. He could have entered the maze a minute ago, or a month. After his twelfth dead end, the latter felt more true.

When he found the center, it was entirely by accident. He'd stopped keeping track of his steps—when everything looked the same, it was too difficult to remember where he'd been. He felt out a new hidden pathway, stumbled through... and found himself in a wide, square field of long yellow grass. In the middle stood what looked like a stone pedestal. Castiel found two items there: a vial containing the cool blue glow of grace, and a hovering, golden light Castiel recognized as a symbol of Heaven.

For one moment, Castiel was overcome with the desire to _take._ His hands trembled as he reached out. He could heal Sam with a touch if he just...

“No,” Castiel whispered, and tore himself away, clenching his hands at his sides.

Do not be seduced by false joy.

~

Details. The constant, unrelenting heat of the sun made him sweat. It ran down his neck, dripped into his eyes and made them sting. His mouth was dry for want of water, his exhaustion growing worse, making him stumble and pant and clutch at surprisingly strong leaves.

Even smaller details flooded him as he trudged down yet another path—the subtle differences in each shade of green, the way his wandering mind kept coming back to the cheerful little worm in the Labyrinth movie, the exact manner in which every bone in his feet seemed to ache.

He was starting to hate details.

So many things flooding his senses, overwhelming him, that he almost stepped on an object lying in the grass before another dead end. Frowning, Castiel bent and lifted it in both hands. It was a roughly square, flat stone, blackened at the edges but softening to a mixture of bright colors as it traveled inward. At its center was a handprint, much like the one Castiel left on Dean's shoulder when he first pulled him from Hell.

Cautiously, Castiel placed his hand there. It fit perfectly, and in a sudden flood Castiel was drowning under a surge of new details—the sweet scent of an apple pie, the spicy aftershave Dean favored, a laugh that was sour at the edges but, just like the stone, brightened at its center, at its _soul._ He heard the Impala racing down the road, classic rock blasting from the speakers. Felt blood on his hands from a beheaded monster, the flood of _loveterroradrenalinepleaseno_ that Dean constantly felt towards Sam in danger. Saw the stubborn glow of a soul that refused to go down under the darkness gnawing at its edges.

It all coalesced into a single, complicated punch of feeling. _Friend. Brother. Love._

Castiel jerked his hand back, gasping. The wave receded and he was able to breathe, sucking in air as though he'd truly been underwater. He clutched the stone to his chest, closed his eyes.

This was Dean. Dean gave him joy.

That meant somewhere he would find Sam.

~

By the time he did, he was fairly certain he was at the other end of the maze. His feet were no longer aching—they were _screaming,_ protesting every step. He fell to his knees when he came across the next object, groaning as the pain turned to a dull, insistent throb that was still somehow a relief.

Setting the stone gently in the grass, Castiel took up instead the book lying before him. It was large, leather-bound and faded. The edges of the pages were brittle and yellow, threatening to crumble beneath the slightest brush of Castiel's fingers, but when he carefully opened it he found clean, strong pages, holding up easily when he pressed his palm against them.

The smooth slide of a lock of hair over his finger. A smile that lit up hazel eyes, amusement and so much fondness. A soul that didn't so much fight the darkness threaded through itself as it did open its arms and smother it in what light it could. Made it work, or lived with it.

Soft music, played at a low level. The thick smell of dusty old books and sweet coffee. Blood slick in his throat and the same punch of fear and adrenaline when Dean was in danger. The pounding of feet on the hard pavement, sweat and early morning sun, the peace that followed. A flush of heat, something Castiel couldn't identify more clearly than _good._

He shut the book, and held that to his chest as well. Stroked his fingers over the spine. It felt different from Dean. No less potent, no less love, just... different.

Picking up the stone, he turned and found the exit directly in front of him, leading right into his bedroom. When he stepped inside and turned, the maze was gone. Just the wall, and a single photo of Sam and Dean that Castiel didn't remember being there before. He wondered which brother put it up. Probably Dean—he was the more domestic of the two, when it came right down to it. Maybe he thought it would make Cas feel more at home.

Smiling, Castiel carefully placed the two items—somehow still there, which he was oddly grateful for—down on his nightstand. Something hard appeared in his hand. When he turned it over, he found another stone, this one smooth and oval and a bright, sunny yellow.

He tucked it into his pocket with the first, and went to check on Sam.


	5. Chapter 5

The door to Sam's room was open. When Castiel stepped into the doorway, he found Sam sitting up and Dean in a chair beside the bed. A glass of water and a bowl of soup were on the nightstand—the water was nearly gone, but the bowl wasn't even half empty.

Sam was pale, mouth pressed in a thin line. Fingers flexing around the remote in his hand, fiddling with the buttons. Dean's shoulders were tense, and he hunched in on himself every time he glanced worriedly at his brother.

Neither noticed him. Castiel hovered there in the doorway, clutching at the wall to support himself. There was nothing to indicate how long he'd been in the maze, no shaking of exhausted limbs or the gnawing emptiness of hunger, yet his eyelids drooped and his head hung low, his mind a haze of gray slowly melting over all these damn  _ details. _

Stumbling inside, Castiel collapsed onto the bed beside Sam and asked, “What are we watching?”

Dean jumped slightly at the sudden intrusion, but relaxed just as quickly. “Game of Thrones,” he answered. “Third season.”

“ It won't make much sense,” Sam said. His voice was a little hoarse, but he managed a smile. “But you look like you're about to pass out anyway.”

Castiel nodded, letting his head loll against the headboard. “How are you feeling?”

Sam shrugged one shoulder. “Okay right now. Just tired, and I have a headache.”

“ You didn't eat.”

Sam glanced at the bowl. Shrugged again. “Not hungry.”

Dean's jaw flexed, eyes shifting to the side before sliding back to the TV. He was certain Sam was dying. Castiel thought it might be worse than that. It was possible Sam could stay like this his entire life, caught in a purgatory of near-death and illness until he succumbed to old age.

Castiel cursed his feeble body and his graceless-fingers. All he had left was his mind, and the labors, and he wouldn't let himself fail. Not when it was Sam's life on the line, and Dean's as well. Castiel knew with a sick, icy certainty that if Sam were to die again, Dean would follow without hesitation.

He blinked, eyelids heavy with want of sleep.

He was standing before a door.

The sensation of so suddenly being in a new place was jarring. He stumbled, feet catching on nothing and nearly sending him sprawling over a shockingly white floor. Stabilizing himself with both hands against the door, Castiel let his head hang for a moment as he wondered if this was how Dean and Sam had felt whenever he flew them somewhere.

If it was, he no longer blamed them for being so reluctant to travel that way.

Pulling in a deep breath, Castiel shoved himself upright and focused on the door. It was the same startling white as the floor, broken only by a brass-colored knob. When Castiel looked down he saw a light under the door, and the barest outline that suggested someone was standing on the other side. Waiting.

He took another breath, and reached up.

The door swung out to reveal Dean.

“ What makes you think you even have the right to be here?” Dean snarled.

Startled by the vehemence in the hunter's voice, Castiel staggered back only to strike something solid. He twisted around to find the door gone, in its place a sheer white wall.

Dean grabbed his arm and forced him to turn, fingers digging into his flesh. Once, his grace would have fortified his vessel. Now, his human skin gave beneath the pressure, a dull ache quickly flashing into a bright pain that made him clench his teeth and try to jerk his arm away.

“ You think you have what it takes to save Sam?” Dean continued, voice low and sharp. “You're the one who brought back a soulless shell and left the real Sam to rot in Hell. You're the one who tore down the wall protecting him. Taking on his madness didn't make that just go away, Cas, and a year in Purgatory sure as hell didn't make up for it, either.”

The hunter yanked Castiel away from the wall and shoved him hard. His feet went out from under him, head cracking against the wall as he fell. Spots exploded in front of his eyes and his ears rang. He hardly felt his back hitting the ground or his wrists aching as he instinctively tried to stop his fall.

He didn't try to get back up. He shuddered out a harsh breath and waited for the spots to recede.

“ Nothing makes up for what I did to him,” Castiel murmured after a moment. His ears had stopped ringing, but his own voice still sounded strange. Almost distant. “To both of you.”

He knew that, he'd always known that, but hearing the words from Dean... it sank right down into his heart and grew claws that tried to shred him from the inside out. It didn't matter that this Dean wasn't real. Living with what he'd done never became any easier, but somehow it was less agonizing when he was the one berating himself.

Slowly, Castiel rose. Dean was gone.

He pushed open the next door.

~

After the second door, Castiel tried to rip it off its hinges before it became one with the wall, and sank to the floor when he remembered how  _ weak  _ he was. The third bloodied his knuckles when he smashed his fists into the wall. By the fifth his eyes burned and his jaw was clenched tight—the eighth saw his gaze dull and his head bowed, fists clenching and unclenching without rhythm.

Balthazar, Meg, a handful of angels he'd destroyed along with so much of Heaven. Each door was another he'd failed. The eleventh door revealed Metatron. It was a shock, a failure of judgment that he still hadn't really stopped to let himself feel, not with Sam so sick.

He stood there and let Metatron's taunting words wash over him without responding.

The twelfth door was opened sluggishly, his feet dragging and his heart pounding, begging him to turn back and run. He'd tried once, after the ninth door, but the wall continued to close in on him, refusing to let him hide from his shame.

Sam was on the other side.

“ Oh, god,” Castiel breathed, didn't even flinch at the blasphemy passing his lips.

“ Hey, Castiel,” Sam murmured.

As much as Castiel had come to love the nickname Dean had bestowed upon him, there was something special about hearing his full name from Sam. At least, there usually was. This time, it made him flinch and duck his head. He stared resolutely at the dirty brown of Sam's boots against the blinding white floor, tight throat working until he finally managed to force out a quiet, “Hello, Sam.”

“ They're right, you know,” Sam continued, voice low and even. Castiel squeezed his eyes closed. “You don't have a right to be here. You've destroyed hundreds of lives, human and otherwise, and you think saving one is going to make it better?”

“ No,” Castiel croaked, shaking his head wildly. “It doesn't make it better.”

Long fingers tucked under his chin and forced him to look up, though Castiel refused to open his eyes.

“ Look at me,” Sam demanded quietly.

Castiel shook his head.

“ Look at me.”

“ I can't,” Castiel hissed. “Sam, please.”

“ Look at me!”

Castiel opened his eyes wide, staring straight into hazel.

“ You think it'll make up for what you did to me?”

Crying out, Castiel tried to fling himself away. Sam grabbed his shoulders to hold him still— _ could  _ hold him still now that Castiel was human. Oh, Castiel could fight him, maybe even get the upper hand if he used his smaller frame to his advantage... but there was no fight in him.

Sam bent down, words low and harsh in Castiel's ear. “When you tore down that wall, I was trapped in my own mind. All the parts of me. I was shattered. My soul and who I was without it, and the part of me that lived in Hell for so long. The parts you failed to save. I had to force myself into one whole. You can't imagine how much it hurt; it can't even be described as pain. If you were going to do such a horrible job of saving me from the pit, you should have just left me there. Or left me soulless—at least then a part of me was never in pain.”

His eyes burned. Sam's face was blurring. Castiel lifted shaking hands to curl them into Sam's shirt, blinking rapidly until he realized it was tears that marred his vision. It wasn't the first time he'd felt their sting, but it was always so easy to coax them back with his grace, to swallow the all-too-human reaction. Now, he had no control, nothing but a useless attempt to squeeze his eyes closed that only made them fall faster.

“ _ I'm sorry, _ ” he whispered.

It wasn't really Sam. He knew that. It didn't matter—the shame burned so hot that all he wanted was to escape it.

“ That doesn't make it better,” Sam said.

Castiel nodded. Released Sam's shirt. Swiped a hand over his eyes and looked up.

He was still there. That was different. The others had vanished when they said their pieces, leading him to the next door. When he tried to go around Sam, the taller man stepped with him to block his way.

“ Do you understand?” Sam asked.

Castiel tilted his head. “I understand. Nothing makes what I did better.”

He tried to pass again, and again Sam stepped with him.

“ That's not the point,” he said, more firmly. “You don't understand.”

His eyes were too wet. Throat closed up. Limbs shaking, chest hollow. He wanted to sink to his knees and lean against the wall, rest. Everything was draining as a human.

How could Sam and Dean be so strong?

He let his legs go out from under him, grunted at the crack of his knees against the hard floor.

A hand ran through his hair, cupped the back of his head.

“ Come on,” Sam said, more gently. “You can do this.”

It was so soothing, so surprising, that Castiel's throat caught around another sob. He leaned into Sam, rested his forehead against his hip and pretended for a moment that this was real, that Sam was standing tall and strong and not lying half-wasted away in a bed, unable to even keep soup down.

“ I try,” Castiel murmured, sighing tiredly. “I keep trying to make things right. To move forward, do better.”

The hand in his hair squeezed, and Sam stepped aside. When Castiel looked up, he was smiling.

“ You can't make it better,” Sam said. “But you can't live in your mistakes, either. Moving on and learning is the only option.”

A sudden roar caused Castiel to jump. His eyes fluttered open to find a dragon on the TV screen. There was an arm around his back, and his head was resting on a broad shoulder. A new stone was nestled in his palm—when he glanced down quickly before tucking it into his pocket, he saw that it was a pale gray.

“ Hey, welcome back,” Sam said softly, smiling when Castiel looked up at him. “You need a real sleep schedule.”

Sam was warm. There was more than a week's worth of beard on his jaw, spilling down over his throat. It was scratchy when Castiel rubbed his fingertips against it.

Details.

“ Did you guys want to be alone?” Dean asked teasingly. When Castiel rolled his head to the side, there was a grin on Dean's face and something like surprise in his eyes.

Castiel flipped him off. Dean laughed so hard he tipped his chair over backwards.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been three days since the last labor.

He'd lost the ability to precisely track time when he'd fallen. Like the rest of humanity, he had to rely on less exact methods—the clock on his phone, telling him it was 6 a.m. The deep rose and gold hues staining the sky as the sun slowly rose over the horizon, marking the morning of the third day. Even less precise, the steady beat of his footfalls as he ran up the hill outside the bunker, counting away the seconds.

Dean brought him some new clothes yesterday, including a pair of sneakers that were much better for running than his old dress shoes. The ex-angel had tried going for a run on the second day of nothing, when Sam told him that it was a good way to relieve extra energy. He was right—by the time Castiel had returned, he'd been sweating and sore, feet aching and legs shaking with exertion. One casual mention of this and Dean was suddenly out getting him clothes and shoes, grumbling something about “fitness geeks” under his breath when he shoved them into Castiel's arms.

His heart was hammering. Breath thin and sharp, lungs burning. Muscles tensing, sweat dripping into his eyes.

Mind clear.

He liked these details.

He came to a stop at the top of the hill, staring down at where the trees ended and the city began again. Sam was worse today. He was shivering under five blankets, though he insisted it was something more than cold. Something he couldn't give a name to, or even begin to describe. It made him avoid food and barely let him choke down water.

The sun spilled over the horizon, drenching the city in light. Castiel stretched out a hand to feel the heat of it against his skin, silently cursing Apollo. Why was this taking so long?

With a frustrated sigh, he turned and jogged back towards the bunker.

After a quick shower and some eggs and toast Dean insisted he eat, Castiel slipped into Sam's room. He was sitting propped up against a mound of pillows, blankets draped over his legs and shoulders. There was a book open in his lap, but Sam wasn't looking at it. His eyes were glazed, staring off towards the wall. When Castiel cleared his throat to catch Sam's attention, it took nearly a full minute for him to focus.

"Hey,” Sam whispered—even his voice was weak today. “How was your run?”

It didn't matter that Sam was on the edge of death. He still wanted to know how everyone else was. Something warm and tight flooded Castiel's chest, made his breath catch and his heart pound. He was across the room in three steps, Sam's cold, sweaty hand clasped between both his own before he understood what he was doing.

“It was fine,” Castiel said. He brushed his thumb over Sam's wrist bone, far too prominent through pale skin.

“Good.” Sam gave a wan little smile, head rolling against the wall. His eyes came to rest on Castiel's hair, mussed and clumped into spikes where it was still drying. “Oh, god, you took a shower. I want a shower. I think the last one was a week ago.”

“I could help you?”

Sam frowned. He opened his mouth, closed it. Then he shrugged one shoulder. “If you could help me with a bath? I'm not sure... I mean, I'd need someone to be there. In case I get even weaker and can't sit up, or need help walking back. But I think a bath would be better—I can at least mostly clean myself that way.” He winced and chuckled suddenly, eyes falling shyly to his lap. “In case it wasn't clear, that was a 'yes, please'.”

Castiel smiled. There was a flush of warmth in his chest, the slightest tremor in his hands when he helped Sam to his feet. The heat flushed all the brighter when Sam's thin arm rested over his shoulders, body leaning in for support.

Details. Details he didn't understand yet.

They bypassed the shower room and went instead to a small bathroom down the hall. There was only one tub, a tiny sink, and a toilet. Not even a towel rack, though someone had managed to stack a few between the sink and the wall. Castiel helped Sam sit on the toilet and plugged the drain with a white rubber stopper.

“How hot?”

Sam frowned thoughtfully. “Hot, but not too hot. My skin's kinda sensitive right now, but I think the cold would be worse.”

Castiel nodded.

The tub was deep, so it took a while to fill. While it was running, steam curling gently around them, Castiel helped Sam undress. The hunter didn't seem at all embarrassed, which didn't really surprise the former angel. He was sure Sam had been naked around his brother more than once.

He did blush, just slightly, when Castiel carefully tugged off his boxers. A quiet chuckle—high enough to almost be a giggle—escaped him, his eyes shifting away before determinedly seeking out Castiel's gaze. Castiel deliberately kept his eyes downcast until he'd tugged the clothing off and tossed it into the corner by the door... though it was oddly difficult.

The difficulty eased somewhat once Sam was in the water. He sighed contentedly as the warmth rushed over him and leaned back against the porcelain.

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam murmured and let his eyes drift closed.

“You're welcome, Sam.” Hesitantly, Castiel sat on the toilet seat and folded his hands in his lap. “Do you need me to do anything?”

“Mm, don't think so. I'll wash up in a minute, just. This feels really good.”

Castiel nodded, even though Sam couldn't see him. “Take your time.”

After a few moments, Sam opened his eyes and pulled himself upright. He took the soap from a shelf and began to slowly work up a lather. His eyes flicked to Castiel's a few times, and each time the ex-angel smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

When Sam started to work the lather into his shoulders and chest, Castiel found his eyes wandering, assessing Sam's physical condition. The hunter had lost a little muscle and was far too skinny, pale enough to tie a knot of worry in Castiel's chest. But he was smiling, broad enough to crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and sighing happily as he rubbed the soap over everything he could reach above the water before diving down to do his legs. His hazel eyes held none of the haze they had occasionally taken on since Castiel arrived, and as much as Sam's weight worried him, the clearness of his gaze went a long way to ease it.

“I can wash your back,” Castiel offered.

Sam paused. Both his eyebrows went up before he let out a quiet chuckle. “If you were anyone else, that would have been a line.”

“A line?” Castiel frowned, head tipping to one side.

“Yeah, uh, a come-on. You know...” Sam gestured vaguely with one hand. Castiel's frown deepened. “Oh my god, stop looking at me like that. Get Dean to explain it later. When I'm not naked.”

Ah, he understood. “A line is a show of intent to approach someone sexually,” Castiel said, just a little too pleased with himself. He might have once been able to recite the whole of human history, but the subtleties were constantly escaping him.

“Yup.” Sam made a strange popping sound with the “p” and stared determinedly at the water. There was the flush again, high on his cheeks. Castiel almost reached to touch it, to see if it was warm.

“I've made you uncomfortable,” Castiel sighed. He took the soap from Sam's hand and dipped his hands into the water. “My apologies.”

“I'm fine.” Sam flashed him a smile. The water shifted enough to slosh over the side as Sam drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “Go ahead.”

Castiel paused a moment, but when Sam remained still he set the soap to his skin. Despite the weight loss, Sam's back was still broad, muscles twitching occasionally as he rubbed suds over pale, too-cold flesh. Every knob of his spine was painfully visible—Castiel ran gentle fingers over each one until his hand sank beneath the water and Sam began to shiver.

“Are you okay?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” he said, slightly breathy. “Just, skin's a little sensitive. It's okay, though; you're not hurting me.”

When Castiel was finished, he cupped handfuls of water and poured them over Sam's back until the suds were gone. Then he took the shampoo from the shelf and poured some into his hand.

“I can do that,” Sam said, but he didn't resist when Castiel guided him back with one hand so he could dip his hair into the water.

“I don't mind,” Castiel assured him.

He thought of a lock of hair twined around his finger and shuddered.

Gently, Castiel combed his fingers through Sam's hair until it was soaking. Then he let Sam sit back up and massaged the lather into it, right down to his scalp. Sam let out a low moan, immediately followed by a flash of an embarrassed grin, but Castiel hardly noticed. Sam's hair was thick and smooth, slick with the shampoo. His fingers slid through it easily, except a few places where it tangled. He coaxed them out carefully, then dug back down to rub light circles into Sam's scalp, intrigued by the tiny noises the hunter kept attempting to choke down.

“I don't mind,” Castiel said again, quietly. The knot in his chest had eased into that warmth he'd felt before, easing down into his limbs, creeping up into his cheeks. He breathed in the scent of vanilla and the damp heat of the steam, leaning in just a little closer.

Sam went very still. The arms around his knees tightened. He tipped his head back—his eyes were little more than slits. His lips were parted, his breath just a little too heavy.

It looked good. Castiel tipped his head down, their foreheads nearly brushing, his fingers barely moving now. He stared at Sam's lips and wished he could pour every ounce of his own health into him.

He leaned just a little closer, mind a fog but for that one need for Sam to be alright.

Abruptly, Sam sucked in a sharp breath and let himself fall back in the water, nearly completely submerging himself as he rinsed his hair. When Castiel tried to help, the hunter knocked his hand away and said quickly, “I'm fine.”

Castiel blinked. He stood and stepped away, the heat inside him turning rapidly to a knot of cold in the pit of his stomach.

The intimacy was gone when Castiel helped Sam dry off and redress, and it confused him to no end. What had he done? Had his desire to help been too clear? Too open? If he asked, would Sam behave as Dean often did and turn away from what he was feeling?

Frustrated, Castiel helped Sam into bed. It didn't matter. What mattered was helping Sam get better. He would do anything to achieve that goal, even if it meant holding back his confusion.

No sooner had he thought it than he felt something firm materialize in his hand.

“Do you need anything?” Castiel asked softly.

“Some water?” Sam asked. “Please.”

“Of course.”

Sam offered him a smile. Castiel returned it, glad that Sam didn't seem angry with him, at least.

In the kitchen, once he'd confirmed Dean wasn't there and had found a glass for Sam's water, Castiel opened his hand.

The stone there was a smooth oval shape, and a deep crimson.

He slipped it into his pocket with the others, and took the water to Sam.


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel's room was bare.

After leaving Sam with his water, Castiel had come straight to his room with the intention of taking a nap—he thought sleep might help ease the chill of confusion churning in his stomach after the odd turn things had taken with Sam. He'd opened the door to find absolutely nothing; no bed, nightstand, not even the single photo Dean had taped to his wall. Only an open cardboard box in the middle of the floor, with a note taped to the side.

Taking the few steps to the box and kneeling, Castiel carefully tore the note away.

_ Make a room for Dean. You may only use seven items. _

Interesting. Placing the note beside the box, Castiel sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled it closer.

There were a lot of objects inside—too many, in fact. There was no way all of them should have been able to fit in there. He shifted through cassettes and guns, a few old toys. At one point his hand bumped something soft that turned out to be a miniature version of Dean's memory foam mattress. He smiled when he saw that, and pulled it out of the box.

One.

_ “It remembers me,”  _ he recalled Dean saying. He'd apparently said the same thing to Sam. His ecstatic grin and bright eyes had made Castiel smile and ache all at once. Dean was made so happy with the simplest of things, and yet he so rarely got those things.

The next item he chose was Dean's favorite gun. He would always want something around to protect himself and his loved ones. Then a small photo album that Dean had only recently put together, but Castiel knew it meant a great deal to him to finally have the pictures all in one place. There were pictures of Mary, and Sam when he was very young, and a few of John. There were even a few of Castiel.

He paused on those, surprised by two of them. One he'd known about—Sam had taken it several years ago. They were in an ice cream shop, something Dean had insisted they do to celebrate a successful hunt. Dean had his arm around Castiel's shoulders and was gesturing wildly at all the flavors the shop had to offer. There had been a lengthy discussion about how pistachio was an offense to humanity, if Castiel remembered correctly, and Sam had snapped the picture on his phone right around the time Castiel decided to try that flavor simply because Dean insisted it was awful.

Dean must have taken the other two. One was of Castiel and Sam sitting together on the hood of the Impala. Sam had his hands in his pockets and his face tipped into the early morning sun. Castiel was nearly the mirror image, only one of his hands was braced against the hood. Their shoulders were pressed together. The angle of the picture was odd, enough so that Castiel suspected Dean had stealthy snapped it on his phone. On the bottom, in the very left corner, were three question marks.

Castiel frowned and turned to the next one.

The second was of Sam and Castiel sitting at the end of a motel bed, watching something on TV and leaning heavily into each other. If it was the motel Castiel was thinking of, that picture was taken just after a werewolf hunt only a few months ago. They'd been watching Dark Crystal—because Sam insisted that if someone watched Labyrinth then they also had to watch Dark Crystal—and Dean had been pretending to be utterly disgusted with them while not-so-subtly attempting to watch behind their backs. Castiel remembered he'd been unusually tired, though he hadn't yet known it was because of Naomi's influence on him. The angle of this picture suggested Dean had taken it while lying down. In the corner, scrawled in blue ink, were the words  _ they can't be this stupid. _

Castiel almost threw down the album and went to demand what Dean meant right then and there. He only just resisted. Maybe he would ask later.

After the photo album, he chose an old book full of dessert recipes that Dean thought was a secret, the scimitars that Dean hung on his wall, John Winchester's journal, and one cassette. That one took him a while—he finally settled on Bob Seger, if only because he'd heard Dean play it the most.

When he had all the items grouped together, they flashed a soft red and disappeared. A new note lay in there place:  _ make a room for Sam. The same rule applies. _

The first item was easy: Sam's laptop. The next two were simple as well—a photo of Jess that he kept in his wallet, and another photo of Dean and Castiel that was also kept in his wallet. It was the same one in Dean's album from the ice cream shop.

After a moment of hesitation, Castiel also laid the demon killing knife in the pile. For months after Sam cut himself off from his demon blood addiction he'd slept with the knife under his pillow, one hand curled around the hilt. Castiel never knew if it was a reminder to himself, or some kind of anchor. Perhaps both.

There were quite a few books in the box. Castiel chose an old book of fairy tales, one he'd often seen resting open on Sam's bed. It was a special collection the Men of Letters had either obtained or written themselves, one that told truer versions than most people would realize. Once, just a few months ago, Castiel had nearly asked Sam to read one to him. Stories seemed so much more fascinating to him now that he'd lived among humans, and he found Sam's voice soothing—despite what he'd once told him under the influence of alcohol.

The last two items were a little different. One was a framed picture of a foggy road taken through the window of the Impala. Castiel remembered this—it was years ago, during his deal with Crowley. He'd made a habit of periodically checking in on the brothers, appearing without their knowledge because he'd been so afraid of being found out and talked out of his plan. He'd arrived in time for Dean to pull the car over and take the picture on his phone. He'd laughed it off after, but Sam had insisted the picture was good. He'd sent it to himself before Dean could delete it. Unlike Dean, he saw value in what his brother had considered little more than a whim.

The second was the amulet Dean used to wear. Sam had pulled it out of the trash when Dean left the room. He carried it in his pocket most days. He'd shown it to Castiel once, while Dean was out getting coffee. When Castiel asked why Sam hadn't tried to give it back, Sam had just shaken his head and said Dean wasn't ready. Then he'd curled his fist around it, protective, fierce and sad all at once. Like he understood how betrayed Dean felt when God refused to be found, yet somehow he hadn't given up hope.

Gently, Castiel laid the amulet on top of the book.

Just like before, the items flashed a soft red. A new note appeared beside them.

_ Why are these items different? _

Castiel frowned. They were different for a variety of reasons. They belonged to very different personalities, for one thing. Or was he meant to see the difference in why he'd chosen them?

Why  _ had  _ he chosen them?

He thought of Dean. He thought of his grin, how he lit up when he played his music or sank down into his mattress. How excited he'd been when he showed Castiel his room, “ _ MY room, Cas, can you believe that?”  _ He thought of how much Dean loved Sam, how much he loved  _ Cas,  _ and it made the ex-angel smile. He'd chosen these items because he loved Dean and wanted him to be happy.

Sam... Sam loved books, and Dean and Castiel. He wasn't as attached to his room as Dean, which was why the laptop was important—it helped Sam feel connected to the outside world. Connected to anything. The knife made him feel safer. Dean's picture made him proud. Castiel thought of Sam and wanted to protect him, give him what he could that was separate from hunting. He wanted...

The note burned a soft red and vanished.

Castiel stared at the empty space, dazed and limp.

_ They can't be this stupid. _

He loved Sam.


	8. Chapter 8

_ He loved Sam. _

Castiel was still stunned (eyes wide, heart rate increased, limbs loose and unresponsive, so many details too many), so when the stone appeared in his hand he barely felt it. He clenched his fist around it, instinctively protecting it, but it took him a full minute and a disorienting second when his room reset to something more familiar before he was able to lift his hand.

This stone was shaped something like a human heart and was a deep pink, just on the edge of becoming red. Castiel ran his thumb over its ridges, something like a smile teasing at his lips. He wondered how long Dean had known, and why he chose not to say anything.

Perhaps because Sam did not feel the same?

The smile fell. Castiel shoved the stone into his pocket. Of course Sam didn't feel the same. How could he, after what Castiel did to him when he tore down the wall blocking his memories of Hell?

It was enough that Sam had forgiven him. Castiel wouldn't burden him with feelings he didn't return.

Something cold and knotted settled in the pit of his stomach. He ignored it and all its  _ details  _ (hurt heart sick, sick deep down, need to say something anything) and left the room. He was still tired, but he knew for certain that he would be unable to sleep now.

There was a note on the fridge saying that Dean had run to town for groceries. Castiel briefly considered hiding here until he came back, but decided that wasn't fair to Sam. He filled a glass of water and, in a fit of hope, put together a sandwich for him. It had been a while since he kept anything solid down, but maybe today was the day.

He tried not to focus on how carefully he made the sandwich, how he thought on which condiments Sam liked and how he would want more vegetables than meat. It seemed suddenly too incriminating, and in a moment of panic he nearly drenched the thing in mustard just to make it seem as though he wasn't trying too hard.

Slamming the mustard container down, Castiel ignored the spray of yellow the violent action splattered all over the counter and scowled down at the sandwich. This was ridiculous. He was going to take Sam his lunch, and he was going to act as though everything was still perfectly normal. Because as far as Sam knew, it was.

It took him nearly ten minutes to actually pick up the plate.

Sam was asleep when he opened the door. Quietly, he slipped over to the nightstand and placed the water and food there.

He tried not to look too closely at Sam. He failed miserably.

Sam had a little color in his cheeks today, and his hair was dry now, soft and clean. Castiel had a lock of it wrapped around his finger before he could think it through. He let himself linger just a second, marveling at how much more significant such a little action suddenly felt.

Sam's hair was smooth, just a little frizzy from drying all messed up on the pillow. Castiel shivered as it trailed over his skin, and quickly turned away.

He opened Sam's door with every intention of going back to his own room... only to find himself facing Sam's bed again.

He blinked. Turned around and tried again.

Same result.

Three more attempts were met with the same issue. Castiel began to panic, the sensation swelling in his chest with such force that he couldn't press it back down. He hated being human in that moment, hated the lack of control, the calm of his grace. He nearly slammed a fist into the door when one last try failed—he only stopped himself because he didn't want to wake Sam.

Slowly, he turned to face the bed. His hands were shaking, so he clenched them into fists.

“ I can't,” he whispered to the room, even though he knew he wouldn't be released.

Unable to bring himself to wake Sam, Castiel climbed onto the bed beside him and sat against the headboard. He couldn't decide if this was crueler than the labor that had forced him to face all his failures. Sam would be gentle when he rejected him, at least, but would he be able to treat Castiel the same? Would their friendship hold up to that kind of knowledge?

Castiel shuddered. It didn't matter. If he had to do this to save Sam, then he would.

He had no idea how much time passed, but it wasn't enough. When Sam's eyes opened, Castiel's stomach cramped with how much fear rushed through him all at once. He fisted one hand in the sheets, just out of Sam's sight, and drew in a shaky breath as Sam swiped at his eyes with one hand and slowly worked himself into a sitting position.

“ Hey,” Sam murmured, voice still thick with sleep. He offered a small smile. “What're you doing?”

His eyes were heavy-lidded, and it made Castiel think of the expression on Sam's face in the bath, just before he'd suddenly pulled away from Castiel. Something new rushed through him, slight and fragile and somehow more powerful than his fear—what if Sam pulled away because he nearly kissed him?

Humans were constantly saying that actions spoke louder than words. He supposed now was as good a time as ever to test that.

Sam's eyes widened when Castiel surged forward. He had only his brief experience with Meg to draw on, and he hoped it was enough.

Sam's lips were soft, his eyes wide, his shoulders heaving with surprise under Castiel's hands. His breath was warm and felt briefly strange in Castiel's mouth until he boldly flicked his tongue over Sam's bottom lip, coaxing him into opening so he could offer up his own breath.

He sat back abruptly, set his hands in his lap, and determinedly stared at them.

After a long, near-painful silence, Sam cleared his throat. One big hand slid onto Castiel's shoulder, warm and firm. He braced himself as though expecting a physical blow—somehow, he thought this might be worse.

“ How long have you wanted to do that?” Sam asked quietly.

Castiel frowned down at his hands. That definitely wasn't the immediate rejection he'd been expecting. Perhaps there truly was hope? “I'm not sure,” he admitted. “I only recently realized what... what I wanted.”

A soft, breathless laugh almost made Castiel look up. Almost.

“ I thought it was a mistake,” Sam said. “When you were helping me in the... um. Helping me bathe. I thought we just got caught up in the weird intimacy or something. Or, I mean. I thought you did.”

Castiel did look up then, sharply. Sam's expression was calm, betrayed only by how wide his eyes were. When their gazes met, the fingers on Castiel's shoulders tightened.

“ I found a photo,” Castiel blurted. “In Dean's album.”

He watched Sam's lips purse and eyes narrow in confusion. “Um. Okay?”

“ It was of us,” Castiel continued, desperate. “Dean wrote in the corner.  _ They can't be this stupid. _ ”

Sam's eyes flew wide again. “Oh god, he  _ knows?  _ I mean, uh, I... shit.”

The hand on Castiel's shoulder slid away as Sam buried his face in both hands.

There was something smooth and hard in Castiel's palm, but he couldn't bring himself to look. He was too busy slowly lifting his free hand and twining a lock of Sam's hair around his finger. Sam's shoulders shook as he laughed quietly into his hands.

“ Where'd this new obsession with my hair come from?”

“ I don't know. You have nice hair.”

Sam let his hands fall away, allowing Castiel to see the faint blush staining his cheeks. “Thanks. Um. Cas?”

“ Yes?”

“ Can I kiss you again?”

Castiel smiled. “Yes, Sam.”

He left the room more than an hour later, a small smile fixed on his face.

The new stone in his hand was a blazing red. He thought maybe it was courage.


	9. Chapter 9

Two days passed without incident.

Sam was feeling better, well enough to walk on his own. They all knew it wouldn't last, though Dean was determined to pretend it would. He'd hugged Sam when he'd first come out of his room, pale and a little shaky, but looking so much less like he had one foot over the doorway to permanent rest. Then Dean baked three pies in a row and made more burgers than either Cas or Sam knew what to do with, and force fed all of it to them.

Well. All except the blueberry pie. That one he insisted was perfection, and that no one would appreciate it as much as it deserved except him. Sam and Castiel were inclined to agree.

When Castiel was alone in his room, he would take out the stones and hold them all in his cupped hands. Six of them, shining softly when held together.

There was no reason to think the seventh and final labor would be any worse, or better, than the others. He dreaded it all the same.

~

It came in with the night.

Dean and Sam were asleep, or at least he assumed Dean was. He knew for a fact Sam was down for the night because he'd been in his room until just an hour ago, kissing him breathless until the sickness drove him too quickly to exhaustion. Pale, shaking, coughing a little as he tried to breathe—all details drowned out by one more significant; the way Sam smiled. Huge and all teeth, deep crinkles in the corners of shining eyes.

Perhaps being human meant focusing on the good details. Letting them overwhelm the bad.

Smiling to himself, Castiel pulled open the fridge. He couldn't sleep, but that was alright. The nerves were distant, buried under the lingering warmth of Sam's kisses and the strange urge for a late night snack.

“ You really think you won't fail him?”

Castiel froze. His hand tightened around the fridge handle.

“ You fail everything else. You even failed at being a good soldier. If you stay, you'll fail him.” The fridge door slammed closed, torn so sharply from Castiel's hand that his fingers ached.

“ You'll probably end him,” the voice continued, rough and low, but darker than his own.

He knew it was his anyway. When he finally dared to look up, the only thing different about the copy of himself standing so close was that this version had demon-black eyes.

“ I won't,” Castiel hissed. 

His copy smirked. “You already have. You let him kill Lilith. The version you brought back from Hell wasn't even whole. You were too weak to really save him. Too weak to stop yourself from tearing his wall down just to wage a war you knew you couldn't win without them. It's your fault he remembered Hell, your fault Dean suffered years longer there than he had to. Your fault Heaven is broken—”

“ _ I am aware! _ ” Castiel cried. His fist slammed into the fridge door, but his demon self didn't so much as flinch. “But punishing myself won't fix any of it!”

His other self grinned. “Don't worry. I'm here to do that for you.”

A blink. That was the amount of time it took for his other self to grab Castiel by the collar of his shirt and hurl him out of the kitchen.

Castiel heard his back strike a table, the splinter of wood and the crash as it all fell to the floor, before he registered the pain searing up his spine. He shouted, rolling immediately into his stomach, hand groping desperately over his shoulder for a spike of wood embedded in his back. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his other self striding into the room and on instinct, Castiel tried to fly.

His other self laughed when nothing happened. Castiel froze, halfway up on his knees, hot blood trickling down his back and a hotter pain writhing under his skin. Hands shaking. Heart pounding.

_ Details. _

“ Cas!”

Footsteps thundered down the hall, two voices calling out his name. Dean got there first and was immediately flung across the room, swatted out of the air like an annoying insect. He crashed to the floor in a heap and slid three feet into the wall. The sound of his body slamming into the solid surface made Castiel cry out his name, but the impact had knocked the hunter out cold.

Sam came next, breathing far too heavily, supporting himself against the doorframe as his eyes scanned the room. He found Castiel first, still struggling to reach the wood in his shoulder, and then Dean crumpled against the wall. The angel saw the struggle in his eyes, his hesitant step forward even as he looked back at Dean.

“ Go!” Castiel yelled through gritted teeth. He finally got a grip on the wood and screamed as he tore it out, raw pain shredding beneath his skin and deep into muscle.

“ No, stay,” his other self countered, smiling as he took a step towards Sam. “This is so much better, Castiel. I'll force you to watch me tear him apart. You know you'll do it eventually, anyway.”

The ex-angel lunged, but his other self snapped out a hand and Castiel went crashing back into the broken table. Splinters dug into his hands; a snapped table leg scraped over the wound in his back. The pain made him dizzy, made him squeeze his eyes shut and pant for breath for a few precious seconds.

Enough time for his other self to get Sam by the throat.

“ Cas, what the hell—!” was all he heard before Sam was slammed into the wall beside his brother, unable to speak around the tightness of the grip on his throat.

Castiel opened his mouth to shout a warning, let Sam know what he was up against... and the six stones in his pocket flared hot, burning skin through thick denim.

“ I don't know!” he yelled instead. His vision swam as he staggered to his feet, but he wasn't sure how much was pain and how much was terror. He'd nearly done exactly what his other self said—failed, failed this like he failed everything else he'd ever attempted, all because he'd nearly said the wrong thing.

_ You can't tell anyone what you're doing. _

His blade was in his room, and his other self was between him and the hall. Desperate, Castiel grabbed the same table leg that had worsened his wound and lunged at his other self, burying the jagged end in the other's back.

“ Really?” his demon self craned his head over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised and an amused smile on his lips. “You think that's how you defeat hate? With more of it?”

The table leg vanished. Over his other self's shoulder, Castiel could see Sam's eyes starting to glaze, his chest heaving in an effort to draw a real breath.

Hate. Self-hate, that's what this was. His utter disgust at himself for every time he'd failed a mission, failed the Winchesters, failed himself.

He thought of Sam's forgiveness after the wall in his mind shattered. Dean's pleading when he was under Naomi's influence.

He opened his mouth, and the table leg rematerialized just below his collarbone.

A strangled, desperate sound from Sam might have been the angel's name, but Castiel barely heard it around the agony that exploded through him. He clawed at the wood, but when he tried to yank it out his vision blurred and his stomach clenched around an abrupt wave of sickness. The pain of his knees striking the hard floor was insignificant in comparison.

“ Look at that,” his other self said softly. “You're going to fail again.”

“ I'm not,” Castiel gasped.

It hurt to breathe, each inhale shifting muscles around the wood. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to look up. Sam's eyes were rolled back, his hands limp at his sides. There was blood trickling down his neck from where his head had struck the wall. Details, all details that should have caused rage, made him want to lash out.

Instead, he shifted his gaze to the black eyes of his other self, and whispered, “I forgive you.”

The new stone materialized in his hand in the same instant his other self smirked, flickered, and vanished. Sam gasped and crumpled to the floor, wheezing as he drew in lungfuls of air. His hand groped blindly and Castiel caught it, despite the movement causing a surge of pain.

The new stone was black like his other self's eyes. It vanished almost as soon as he looked at it, along with the others in his pocket.

“ Are you...” Sam coughed again, groaned as he rolled onto his side, squeezing Castiel's hand weakly. “Are you okay? What the hell was that? How the hell did it get in the bunker?”

“ No,” Castiel whispered, both a refusal to answer and a denial that he was okay. He hadn't known pain like this... well, ever. Pain was experienced so differently as an angel. “Just... can you get to Dean?”

Sam drew in a slow, steady breath and opened his eyes. “Yeah, I think...  _ shit,  _ Cas!”

“ Just leave it,” Castiel hissed, but Sam was pushing himself, shaking, to his knees and wrapping his hands around the table leg. Then he froze, eyes wide on where the wood disappeared into Castiel's body. Slowly, he released it.

“ It'll bleed too much,” Sam murmured. “Shit. I gotta... oh god, Cas, I don't think I can drive...”

Just like when Castiel had summoned him, Apollo appeared to step out of midair. Sam barely had time to shout in surprise before a glowing hand was sliding over his head, pouring a light made up of all the colors of the stones into Sam's body. He started to fall as the light sank into him, but Apollo caught him and guided him gently down to the floor.

Then he turned to Castiel and yanked the wood out of his body. The wound mostly closed the second it was gone, leaving behind an angry red gash and an echo of the agony Castiel was certain should have seared through him when the table leg was pulled free.

“ Thank you,” he gasped.

Apollo nodded. “There was only a little left, I can't heal anything else on you. Well, I could, but I've explained the power uses already. You'll live.” His expression softened slightly as he glanced down at Sam. “So will he. Well done.”

He disappeared before Castiel could say anything. He let himself slump to the floor beside Sam. Exhaustion made his eyelids heavy. Aches in his body, sharp pain still throbbing in his back—details that wouldn't let him stand, much less crawl to Dean to check on him.

He didn't even make it until Sam awoke before he was forced into unconsciousness.


	10. Chapter 10

There was something soft under his head. A throb in his back, dull but persistent. Warmth, and a heavy weight over his waist. Breath against the back of his neck. An ache in his temples and shoulder that became worse as he tried to move.

He didn't bother sorting the details. His head felt too fuzzy.

“ Cas?” The weight moved, tightened as a hand flattened against the mattress—ahh, it was Sam's arm. That was nice. A nice detail. “Hey, you awake?”

“ Mmph,” Castiel replied. He almost laughed at himself but it required too much effort.

Sam huffed a soft laugh and pressed a kiss to Castiel's hair. That was nice, too. “Hey, welcome back. Dean's okay, he had a mild concussion but he's already up and drinking too much. You've been out for two days. I'll go tell him you're up.”

“ Wait.” Castiel managed to bring up a hand and wrap it around Sam's forearm. “Are you okay?”

There was a pause. Then Sam's weight shifted further, leaning over Castiel until their eyes could meet. Sam's cheeks were flushed a healthy pink, his eyes bright, all traces of shaking gone. He was still too thin, but they could work on that.

“ I'm better than okay,” he said slowly. “Aside from the cut on my head from when that... other you, threw me into the wall, I'm completely healthy. And you're going to explain that just as soon as Dean sees you're okay.”

Castiel smiled. He reached up and brushed his knuckles over Sam's cheek, grinning wider at the feel of warmth and the roughness of stubble against his skin. “Of course, Sam.”

He swooped down and pressed a chaste kiss to Castiel's lips, huffing soft, disbelieving laughter against them before he shoved himself out of bed. The movement brought another detail to Castiel's attention; he was starving. His stomach growled loudly as he slowly pushed himself upright, but it was too late by the time he called out to Sam.

It turned out he didn't need to tell Sam. When Dean burst into the room, he was carrying far more food than one person could put away; sandwiches and soup and even a bowl full of sliced strawberries. It barely fit on the nightstand even after Sam moved the lamp aside.

“ Dean's mother hen is out in force,” Sam said with a fond roll of his eyes.

“ Shut up,” Dean snarled. He snatched a sandwich from the plate and practically threw it at Sam. “You're both gonna eat all of this or I will cram it down your throats. But you!” Dean whirled to face Cas. “You don't get any until you tell me what the hell you did.”

So, Castiel explained everything, from his decision to summon Apollo to the labors and the energy they collected. He cast occasional, wistful glances in the direction of the food, but Dean would step in front of the nightstand and cross his arms every time.

Castiel skimmed over the labor he believed was based on shame, and couldn't look either of them in the eye when he described the final as self-hatred.

At least, not until Dean said quietly, “Hey, we've all been there,” and Sam reached over to grasp his shoulder, smiling encouragingly.

“ So.” Dean sank down on the edge of the bed, finally offering Cas a sandwich. “Basically, you saved Sam's life.”

“ Basically,” Castiel confirmed, and took a bite. He smiled when Dean grinned, the expression so full of relief and gratitude, and then looked up at Sam. “It is unlikely you would have died. You would have simply stayed like that, and it seemed somehow worse.”

“ Definitely worse,” Sam agreed. He was grinning too, head tipped down towards Cas. His fingers trailed up until he was cupping Castiel's cheek, running a thumb over his chin before he suddenly jerked back, casting a side-glance to Dean.

“ Yeah, like I don't know,” Dean scoffed, and offered Castiel another sandwich.

“ I... what?” Sam stammered. He took the sandwich Dean shoved at him automatically. “Oh right, the photos. Cas told me he found them in your album. I just...” He fiddled with his sandwich, peeling back the bread and staring at the mustard like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Why didn't you say anything?”

He gestured suddenly at Dean, apparently forgetting that he was still holding the bread. A bit of turkey broke free and smacked Dean right in the cheek.

Castiel snorted and nearly choked on a bite of his own sandwich.

It was interesting, how uncontrollable amusement was as a human.

“ Thanks,” Dean said sarcastically, picking the piece off and popping it into his mouth. “I don't know, I didn't want to. You know. Influence anything. Just eat your food!”

Sam obeyed, still looking stunned. Castiel didn't get a chance to do the same because Dean suddenly had him in a hug, tight enough that Castiel swore he could hear his bones creaking in protest. Carefully, he set the sandwich down and wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders.

“ Thank you,” Dean murmured fiercely, voice catching a little near the end.

“ You're welcome,” Castiel murmured back. He rubbed a palm between his friend's shoulders until Dean finally let go, shoving off the bed and grabbing the empty plate, muttering something about eating their soup before he hurried out of the room.

Carefully, Castiel swung his legs out of bed. His back ached, but the partially healed gash where the table leg had gone through only twinged. He tugged his shirt aside to look at it and found it was scabbed over and a little pink, but not the angry red of an infection.

“ Don't move too fast,” Sam said. He'd picked up his soup but was just swirling it around the bowl, eyes locked on Castiel. “Your whole back is pretty tense, and there's a nasty gash just under your shoulder blade.”

Castiel nodded. He rolled his shoulders and winced. A deep ache had settled in his back and shoulders, a pain he knew would be much worse without Apollo's healing.

He glanced at his soup, but after two sandwiches he didn't think he could eat it.

Sam chuckled when he saw where Castiel's gaze had gone. “Yeah, I can't eat this either. I'm too full. Dean's convinced I need to gain fifty pounds or something. Here, we can probably get this down at least.”

He split the strawberries between them, and they were light enough that Castiel ate his entire portion.

When they were gone, Sam grabbed his hand suddenly and gently tugged him upright.

“ Where are we going?” Castiel asked, curling his fingers around Sam's without thought.

Sam grinned. “Out,” he said, his tone almost giddy. “Outside, anywhere, I don't care. Let's just go for a drive. Meet me in the garage, I'll get the keys from Dean.”

A drive. Castiel didn't quite understand the purpose of driving without a destination, but he could see how excited Sam was, so he went to wait by the car. He certainly wouldn't mind getting out for a while, he decided, and if it made Sam happy then he would be happy, too.

Castiel's back ached when he slid into the seat a few minutes later, but he ignored it as Sam started the Impala and gunned it out onto the road.

They drove aimlessly for a while on back roads, slowly easing further and further away from town. Sam rolled the window down after a while and let one arm hang free, tipping his head into the wind on occasion. There was a small smile on his face that hadn't left for at least half an hour.

Castiel was definitely glad he'd come. He was more than content to sit in the passenger seat, turned partially to the side so he could watch Sam's face steadily lighten, shaking off the remnants of the Trials.

They'd been driving for over an hour when Sam pulled off the road, carefully guiding the Impala right into an empty field. They hadn't seen a building for miles, no cars either. The sky was just beginning to darken, a few stars peeking through the last of the fading daylight.

“ Come on,” Sam said, and hopped out of the car.

The hunter sat on the hood, heels planted in the grass to brace himself. Castiel slid up beside him, leaning their shoulders together just because he could.

They were silent for some time, just watching as more and more stars began to appear in the sky. A chill came in with the dark and Castiel shivered, but he didn't want to move, so he just leaned more fully into Sam and his warmth.

He smiled when Sam put an arm around his shoulders.

“ I can't remember the last time I felt this good,” Sam said after a while. He put a hand on Castiel's knee and Cas put his own over it, enjoying the contact. “I didn't say thank you.”

“You didn't need to,” Castiel replied. He squeezed Sam's hand anyway in silent appreciation.

Sam chuckled. When Castiel tipped his head up, brows furrowed in confusion, Sam bent his head to rub their noses together.

Which was absolutely ridiculous, yet for some strange human reason it made Castiel grin.

“That was the perfect opening for a line,” Sam explained after a moment.

“Ah.” Castiel thought of the bath and his accidental line, and his smile turned crooked, just a little sharp. “Am I supposed to take advantage of your gratitude?”

Without warning, Castiel stood and swung one leg over so that he was straddling Sam's thighs. He leaned in and braced his hands against the hood, forcing Sam to lean back. The hunter's eyes widened, his breath coming out sharp and short. Pupils dilating, lips parting in invitation.

Castiel definitely liked these details.

“Because I am amenable to this idea.”

Below him, Sam went briefly still, eyes widening further in surprise before he burst out laughing. He fell back against the hood, hands flying above his head to grip a windshield wiper so he wouldn't slide off. His hair splayed out around his head, chest heaving and cheeks reddening as he gasped around his laughter.

It was at once the most ridiculous and the most attractive thing Castiel had ever seen.

He leaned down and kissed Sam, drank his laughter down until it turned into a soft moan. When he lined up their hips, he was pleased to find Sam hardening in his jeans—he was already halfway there himself just from watching Sam laugh.

What followed was nothing short of a disaster. They managed to rut against each other for a minute or so, Sam frantically hanging on to the wiper and Castiel just holding on to Sam, but then the hunter lost his grip and they slid off the hood, landing in a tangled pile of limbs and helpless laughter. Sam rolled Castiel onto his back, pinned him in the grass and kissed his eyes, his cheeks, his lips. The ex-angel's back ached, protesting Sam's weight, and his shoulder twinged when Sam abruptly rolled to the side to get their jeans open.

“You okay?” Sam asked, breathless.

He worked Castiel's cock from his boxers and he groaned, bucking up into Sam's hand.

“Yes,” he said simply, and yanked Sam back on top of him.

Aside from a handful of curious fumblings over the years since he took this vessel, Castiel had never actually had anything resembling sex, and he'd only orgasmed once. He remembered it as a frantic surge of pleasure, just a quick rush that left him somehow both sated and dissatisfied. At the time, he wasn't sure if he'd done it wrong somehow, or if he was simply not all that interested in the act.

Now, with Sam's cock lined up along his and one of his big hands wrapped around them both, Castiel thought maybe it was that he was only interested in the act with Sam.

“Good?” Sam asked.

When Castiel nodded, Sam grinned and dipped to press their foreheads together.

Sam came first, tossing his head back on a low moan. Milky spurts of come striped Castiel's shirt, warmth bleeding through the thin material. He gasped, brought up a hand to swipe fingers through it so he could bring it to his lips. Sam groaned again when he watched Castiel slip two fingers into his mouth.

“Like it?” Sam panted, half teasing.

Castiel let his fingers slide free. “Not particularly,” he replied. “Yet I'm aroused anyway.”

Sam chuckled. He eased his hips away and wrapped his hand around Castiel's cock alone, rubbing a thumb over the sensitive head in rapid circles until Castiel was bucking into his grip.

“That,” Sam murmured, ducking his head so he could whisper into Castiel's ear. “Is because it's dirty. You're my dirty little angel.”

He pressed his thumb just beneath the head at the same time he bit the lobe of Castiel's ear.

Castiel buried his hands in Sam's soft, soft hair and screamed behind clenched teeth as he came.

~

Warmth. A heavy body tucked up against his side, an arm over his waist. Sam's nose buried in his hair, nuzzling occasionally while his fingers stroked the skin just beneath Castiel's shirt.

Castiel thought this must be what complete contentment felt like. The only thing marring it was the ache in his back, slowly turning into an insistent throb the longer they laid there in the grass.

“I think I need to get up,” Castiel mentioned after a moment.

“Your back?” Sam asked. He lurched up onto his elbow, letting the chill sweep in to tease at Castiel's skin where he was still bared. “Shit, sorry, I didn't even... yeah, let's go home. Do this on a soft mattress.”

He scrambled to his knees and tucked his cock back into his boxers. Lazily, Castiel did the same, letting himself move slowly to keep from pulling too harshly at sore muscles.

The drive back was quiet. They traded soft smiles occasionally, but otherwise didn't speak.

They remained quiet right up until they stepped into the main room and found Dean sitting at one of the tables, feet up and a beer in his hand. He held his hand out for the keys when they got close, rolled his eyes at both of them, and announced that they both had grass in their hair.

Then he set his beer down, clapped them both on the shoulders, and started off towards his room.

Sam watched him go, grinning so widely that Castiel thought it might actually hurt.

“So,” Sam said lightly. “Wanna try that again in a bed?”

Castiel laughed, and let Sam tug him by the hand back to his room.

~

END


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